Return to the North [ Lord of the Rings x Silmarillion ]

The Depths of Orthanc

Aderthon couldn't sleep. It wasn't that the ground was particularly uncomfortable, in fact the bed of soft grass beneath him was softer than usual. But he was so overwhelmed with curiosity about Orthanc that he couldn't get his mind to settle. He tossed and turned, back and forth, trying to find some respite.

Next to him on his left was his ever present best friend, Eldarion. He seemed to be asleep well enough. To his right was Elboron, another of his best friends and a man who was more often than not Aderthon's voice of reason when he got like this. But Elboron was also asleep.

Aderthon glanced over to where Treebeard was lying on his tall entish bed. He seemed asleep, too. Everyone was asleep.

Everyone but me, he sighed to himself as he sat up slowly. Not that it's a surprise.

Aderthon glanced at the looming shape of the Tower of Orthanc. It was to his left, not too far. All he could make out in the night was the black silhouette against a similarly dark sky. It's massive presence inspired all sorts of emotions in his mind, especially that of curiosity and a little bit of fear.

Reaching behind his head, Aderthon grasped his cloak and fastened it around his neck. With great care he stood, silent, checking to make sure he had not awoken anyone. He grabbed his sword and a torch with some flint.

With a smile, he moved forward.

Just a peek. It's probably not even open. In his mind he tried to rationalize his actions.

Gingerly he stepped around his sleeping companions. He ran his hand along the hilt of his sword in anticipation as the tower grew closer. Noting the entrance, Aderthon changed direction and came to it.

The tower was as black as he had always imagined Mount Doom had been. Reaching out, Aderthon put his hand gently to the stone. It was cold despite the relatively comfortable evening. Very smooth, too, was the stone that made Orthanc so strong.

Strange, he thought. Very strange.

Aderthon approached the heavy looking door. He slowly reached his hand out, hesitating ever so slightly. But at last his curiosity overcame his better judgement and he grasped the handle with his right hand.

To his surprise, it opened gracefully. He held his breath as he walked into the dark tower. As he still held the door ajar, he took the flint and lit his torch. Now he was comfortable closing it behind himself.

In front of him was a large, winding staircase. To either side were doorways leading to a few rooms on the base level. The dancing flames of the torch caused strange shapes to appear on the walls, shadows dancing without rhythm.

Aderthon decided to head up the staircase. With each placement of his feet, he was sure he was going to wake his companions. For though he knew it was almost impossible, he was too far away now, it worried him a little.

It's not as though I'm doing something bad, he protested to himself. I'm merely exploring.

Silently he blamed both his mother and father for his streak of curiosity. He knew it would get himself killed someday, but he had a feeling that was not this day.

Reaching the second level, he found himself in some kind of study. Many chairs were here, and Aderthon wondered if this had been where his mother and Lord Aragorn had met with the members of the fellowship. For though Miril, his mother, had not been a member of the fellowship for more than ten days, she had made good friends with the remaining members.

He walked forward and saw a great black chair rooted in place, looking out of an open balcony. It was comprised of the same stone that Orthanc had been built out of.

Saruman's chair, perhaps? He wondered.

He went over to it carefully. Hesitantly he laid his hand upon the throne-like chair and felt its smooth texture. His body itched to sit in it.

And why not? He thought. It's not as if anyone else has laid claim to it!

And so he sat. It felt strange to him. It seemed almost too smooth, too comfortable. Immediately he stood out of it. Something wasn't quite right and he didn't intend to let it get inside his head.

"Aderthon!" came a whispered hiss behind him.

Aderthon leapt around and drew his sword. He pointed it toward the newcomer.

"Elfwine!" He sighed, sheathing his sword. "What are you doing in here?"

"What are you doing in here?" bit back the younger man.

Aderthon rolled his eyes and came over to him. "I was exploring. Obviously."

"That's what I want to do!" The sixteen year old grinned in the torch light.

The half elf made a face but shrugged. "Fine. Then make yourself useful and carry the torch."

Elfwine gladly took the flaming torch from his mentor. Together they made their way around the room. Nothing much was here other than the chairs so they decided to head up again.

At the next level, Aderthon wrinkled his nose. Elfwine gasped as well. Torture equipment of various types were here. Without even speaking they simultaneously agreed to head up another flight.

At the third level, Aderthon smiled. They had reached the library.

"Come on, let's look!" He walked further in and noticed something. "Elfwine! There are still candles here. Light them, will you?"

Elfwine nodded and did as he was asked. He used the torch to light the candles, illuminating the room for both the men. Aderthon immediately pulled out a book from the shelves.

Its cover was dusty, so he blew lightly on it. Dirt and dust flew off in a cloud and he had to stifle a cough. The cover had in large golden Sindarin letters written in Tengwar script:

The Hands of the Enemy

Aderthon was intrigued. He took the book over to a table and sat down. Elfwine was still browsing. He was unable to read Sindarin so most of the books were illegible to him. But not for Aderthon.

He flipped through the pages gingerly. According to the date, this book had been written in the very late Third Age, perhaps fifteen or twenty years before the War of the Ring. The enemy was quickly named as Sauron, but the "Hands" were slightly more confusing.

"The lidless eye spoken of by the orcs seems to have many servants other than these grunts. The wise know of the Nine, but others there were like the Mouth. Black Numenoreans mostly, there were two others in particular. Referred to simply as the "Hands", it was a mantle passed down for generations.

"The Black Hand remained mostly in Mordor, doing the bidding of the master close to home. But the Red Hand was sent much farther. For after the defeat of the Witch King in Angmar, a resistance to the Good began to grow. The Red Hand was sent here.

"Their powers are unrecorded. Their lives are elongated by Sauron himself, it is said. But other than that it is not known how much of himself is in them. Sorcery, certainly, they practice. Black magic taught to them by Sauron. They are also formidable swordsmen if the squealing of the orcs is to be believed.

"Unfortunately at this time I am unsure of their names, either that of the Black or the Red Hand. Perhaps they don't have names at all. But, I will continue to research this matter until my last breath.

-Saruman the White."

Aderthon closed the book. He realized now it was more a notebook than a proper text, written by Saruman himself. Something told him it might be important. He slipped it into his pocket with care.

"Find anything?" he quietly asked Elfwine.

The lad shook his head with a big yawn.

Aderthon gave a small smile. "Come on. Let's get back to camp. I think we're both ready for a rest."